


It's the In-Law Syndrome

by paradis



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-24
Updated: 2011-10-24
Packaged: 2017-10-24 22:40:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/268677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paradis/pseuds/paradis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Steve has an aunt, Danny and Steve are almost married and Steve's aunt may or may not be trying to kill Danny with looks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's the In-Law Syndrome

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note 1) I don't even know where the idea for this one came from? I do know I'm working on another story - have been for weeks that's sucking the life from me, because it's darker and so, I needed something lighter, by comparison, to write, and this came about.  
> Author's Note 2) If anyone has ever had in-laws, then they'll probably understand. Jus' saying. I think that's maybe where it came from.

Danny wakes up one morning to the _clunk_ of something downstairs, and then a thud. He sits up straight in bed, thinking it must be Steve before he looks out the French doors and sees Steve’s figure cutting a path through the ocean – just like every other normal morning. Then he gets a nervous feeling in his stomach and reaches for his piece and slips out of the bed as quietly as he possibly can.

He sneaks down the stairs and avoids the creaky step three stairs down to the left. He bites his lip in concentration as he rounds the corner, gun in front of him, eyes narrowed in concentration. His concentration sways for half a second when he looks down and realizes he’s barefoot and in his boxers and – Jesus, he doesn’t want to die in his boxers – so he grips his gun a little tighter and makes his way towards the foyer where the noise is coming from.

And, well. He’s not prepared to be training his gun on a fifty-something year old woman who is about his mother’s size with brunette hair and a hard look on her face, lugging her suitcase through the door and muttering under her breath about it. She turns around and arches an eyebrow at the gun pointed at her. “Put that gun away, boy, I’m hardly going to do anything to you.”

“Jesus Christ,” Danny says faintly, “Who’re you?”

The woman curls her lip up in a grimace, lets go of the suitcase she was previously trying to get through the door, turns so she’s completely through the doorway and puts her hands on her hips. Her hair is permed and it bounces with each move she makes and – she doesn’t look like Danny’s Ma, but she certainly reminds him of her. “I’m Irene. Has no one ever taught you decent manners, boy? Put that gun _down_ , it’s highly unkind to train one on a lady.”

“A – a lady?” Danny asks uncertainly. She just stares him down until he finally lowers his gun and clicks the safety back on.

“Now be a gentleman and help me get this suitcase through the door, please,” she sniffs, gesturing towards it. “I’m going to go find my Stevie,” and she disappears into the house, leaving Danny standing there barefoot in his boxers – not dead, but certainly shocked-still.

\--  
Once he’s finished lugging the suitcase into the living room – and Jesus, _what has she packed?_ he thinks to himself – he strains his ears and hears her calling around the house, “Stevie! Stevie! Steven, where _are_ you?” So he runs into the kitchen and finds her there, hands still on her hips, a frown on her face.

“Well,” she demands, “Where’s Stevie?”

“I – _Stevie_?” Danny stutters, blinking.

“Yes, what are you, a mute or something?” Irene asks irritably.

This, Danny can respond to. “Mutes don’t speak at all,” he tells her informatively, “Usually because of a traumatic event, sometimes just because they don’t feel like talking. It’s really very sad, actually, I…” he trails off at the look on her face and gestures towards the sliding glass doors, “I’m going to go find Steve, I’ll just – tell him you’re – I’m sorry, who are you?”

“ _Irene,_ ” she says, eyes narrowed, “I told you this already!”

“Right,” he says quickly and makes his escape out the door. When he hits the sand he contemplates jumping in the ocean to meet Steve halfway, boxers and all.

He wonders when he lost his dignity between waking up this morning and hauling a stranger’s suitcase into he and his boyfriend’s house this morning.

Steve rises out of the ocean – Greek-God-like as usual – running his fingers through his hair and makes his way towards Danny, an uncertain smile on his face. “Danno?” he asks, “You um – you don’t usually greet me at the water. In your… boxers,” he glances down.

Danny glances down too and realizes it once again. He feels a bubble of anger rise up in his chest and tries to tamp it down, but it’s too late. He flings his arms out, “Noise!” he shouts, “So I – gun – downstairs – and then there was this woman! And she was, she had a _suitcase_ , Steven, okay, a suitcase. And she tells me her name is Irene and it’s impolite to train guns on ladies and to haul her _suitcase_ into the house and then she says, she says –“ Danny breaks off here because Steve’s eyes are wide and glancing back and forth between him and the house now, one hand gripping one of Danny’s flailing hands – the one, Danny notices, that Danny was jabbing into Steve’s chest – the other pointing towards the house.

“Irene?” He questions, trembling. “You said Irene?”

“She called you _Stevie,_ ” Danny nods.

“Fuck,” Steve breathes out and then lets go of Danny’s wrist and sprints back towards the house.

Danny throws his hands up towards the sky and shakes his head and sprints back up, as well.

Irene has her nose pressed against the glass and is watching them like a hawk, hands on her hips still, foot tapping against the kitchen tiles. Danny has a flash of his mother doing the exact same thing, waiting for him to come in from playing street hockey with the boys on his street right before it was dinner time.

Danny’s mother was never this rude, he thinks.

“That was quite a show you put on out there,” she tells Danny as Steve slides the doors open, eyeing him up and down. “The only man I’ve even known to flail his arms outside in his boxers was my next door neighbor,” she pauses, turning her nose up a little, “He was eighty-seven and certifiably insane.”

Danny opens his mouth and has so _many_ things on the tip of his tongue to say he’s not even sure where to start, but Steve reaches out and grips his arm tightly. Danny bites his lip and doesn’t say anything, just waits.

This had _better_ be good, is all he can think.

“Aunt Irene,” Steve says almost faintly, “What are you doing here?”

“Aunt?” Danny yelps. Steve squeezes his bicep.

“Stevie,” Irene cries and rushes forward, sweeping Steve up into a hug. “I just _had_ to come see you. I needed a vacation and I haven’t heard from you in a while and I thought – what better way to take a vacation than to come and see my favorite nephew?” She’s fussing over Steve’s hair as she talks and she pulls back and investigates him afterwards.

“You’ve lost weight.”

“I haven’t,” Steve ducks his head, “I mean – we’ve just been… busy. And I’m sorry I haven’t called – busy,” he mumbles.

“Aunt,” Danny mouths to himself, pulling out of Steve’s grip and going towards the coffee maker. “Aunt.” He runs that through his head while he pulls a mug down and the creamer and sugar out.

Irene snaps her head over to him at that very moment, observes that he’s only pulled down one mug and narrows her eyes again, “You there,” she says, “You can’t pull down two more mugs? It’s physically impossible? It is extremely impolite not to offer others beverages when you make yourself one,” she informs him in a disdainful tone.

It hits Danny who she sounds like then – not his mother, but his great-grandmother, who had instilled some of her beliefs in his mother and his own mother could sound like now and again, but how mostly she’d just sounded like a dog barking. Constantly bitching and barking orders and complaints. Danny had hated her and he has a sinking feeling he’s not going to enjoy Irene much, either.

“I wasn’t sure if you would want any,” Danny says, “But seeing as you’re complaining about me not getting you any, I’ll assume you do.”

“And it might do to put some clothes on,” she tells him, observing his boxers-clad self, “Running around like a were-Catholic, you are,” she says disapprovingly.

“I’ll bet you’re a Methodist,” he says sarcastically and Steve’s eyes widen behind him and he shakes his head frantically as Irene opens her mouth.

“Look here boy –“ she starts.

“Oh, come _on_ ,” Danny says loudly, staring in disbelief. “Are you kidding me? Seriously? And I have a name! Steve, tell her I have a name!”

They both turn to Steve at the same time and Steve stares back at them, bewildered. “He um, he has a name,” he says quietly.

“Of course he does, dear,” Irene says and pats his cheek.  
\--  
“And she’s so _rude!_ ” Danny swings his arms up in emphasis and then takes another shot. “I’ve seriously – I have so much family and I’ve never – I never,” he thunks his head against the bar and groans. Kono pats his shoulder sympathetically.

“I think it’s the In-Law Syndrome,” she tells him informatively.

“What?” Danny perks his head up, narrowing his eyes at her. “The In-Law what? No – I don’t have any In-Laws I have – Steve,” he nods decisively. Kono rolls her eyes at him and shakes her head.

“Danny,” she says patiently like she’s talking to a four year old, “Think about it. With Steve you probably thought you’d never have to deal with in-laws, right? You were probably pretty psyched over that, somewhere in your –“ she flings a hand, searching for the right word.

“Subconscious,” Danny tells her somberly, nodding drunkenly.

“Subconscious!” She nods enthusiastically, “And now that Irene has appeared – well she’s sort of like the terrible mother-in-law, the Wicked Witch, the person you never want to have to go and visit. In-Law-Syndrome. It’s in your DNA to hate her,” she says sympathetically, frowning.

“I don’t hate Mary!” He disagrees, swaying on his barstool.

“Mary’s… different,” Kono frowns. “She’s like, the awesome best friend, or something. The rebel child.”

“Well I could use the rebel child,” Danny pines, “I bet Irene would hate her more than me.”

Kono laughs and they drink some more and end up passed out at Kono’s house. Danny wakes up on her floor the next morning, his face decorated with the carpet pattern. He peels himself off the floor and groans. Kono is on the couch, one hand flung over the edge and one leg swung up over the back, snoring lightly. He shakes her awake and she groans, “Brah just go,” she tells the couch cushion, fumbling on the floor for her car keys. Danny catches the hint and takes them from her, also borrowing her sunglasses to shield himself from the terrible sunlight.

When he gets home, the smell makes him want to hurl all over the living room. “Oh, my God,” he moans, “What the fuck is that?” He stumbles into the kitchen where the smell is only worse. Irene is there, an apron tied around her waist, stirring something and humming under her breath. Steve is at the kitchen table and he looks up.

“Oh, hey, nice to see you’re – are you wearing girl’s sunglasses?” Steve narrows his eyes.

“Coffee,” Danny rasps, “Fucking – I need coffee and _what is that smell_?” He’s got his nose covered with his tee shirt, which sort of smells like a brewery and a homeless person all wrapped into one so he’s not faring well either way.

“It’s sauer kraut and pork, Danno,” Steve says, eyeing him warily, “Are you okay?”

“Just – I need coffee. God that smells _so bad._ It’s like, eleven in the morning!”

“It’s in the crock pot,” Irene says sharply, “It needs to cook all day for good taste. It’s Stevie’s favorite meal, I used to make it all the time,” she grins at him.

Danny thinks she’s trying to kill him, because he hates this meal.

He’s Italian, what can he say?

“Coffee,” he moans again, and stumbles towards the coffee maker. He goes to get coffee beans, but the bag is gone.

“Steve,” he says lowly, and turns around. Steve is sitting there, staring at his hands. “Steve,” he says again, more panicked.

“I – we were up early this morning looking through photo albums and we drank a lot of coffee,” Steve tries explaining, “I guess we were running low…”

“ _Steve!_ ” Danny wails. Steve looks thoroughly ashamed of himself and blinks down at his hands. He’s obviously about to open his mouth to apologize – which Danny _rightfully_ deserves, if he says so himself, when Irene turns around, wielding a wooden spoon.

“If you had come home at a decent time last night or this morning you would have gotten coffee,” she tells him loudly all the while pointing the spoon at him. Danny involuntarily flinches because, Christ – his grandmother did the exact same stuff with those spoons. “But no, you were out running around like some _child,_ ” she huffs.

Danny’s eyes widen and his jaw drops. “I was _not,_ ” he roars, “Okay, I have a child and I do not _run around_ like a child. I was enjoying a night out! Adults are allowed to do that, _Irene,_ and I wanted to give you and Steve –“ he gestures between the two of them, “Together time – or whatever.”

Irene narrows her eyes, “When I was thirty-four I was successfully married with three children and I never _enjoyed a night out,_ ” she tells him, nose turned up like she does every time she disapproves of something Danny says which – let’s be honest – is a lot.

Danny stands in the middle of _his_ kitchen, clenching his fists, slack-jawed, shirt still covering his nose and searching for every ounce of patience he can gather because – he stops and tries to think of why, exactly he’s searching for patience. This woman is offending him every which way she possibly can and then turning tail and cooing and coddling Steve.

Then it hits him. This is pretty much Steve’s only family – the woman who took him in and raised him after his mother died, so he’s doing it for _Steve_ , and damned if he doesn’t love the bastard. Danny had better get one hell of a Christmas present. He closes his mouth, swallows and unclenches his fists. “You’re right,” he says quietly. Steve’s head whips up and Irene just shoots him a smile. “Of course you’re right. I’m going to bed, now,” and he disappears.

\--  
“She’s been with us for a _week,_ Steve,” Danny hisses as he moves around their bedroom. Steve pulls on a shirt and glances over at him apologetically. “A week! That’s vacation enough – isn’t it? And she hasn’t made any noises about going home!”

Danny buttons his own shirt and then pulls his gun out from the drawer, clipping it in place. Steve is moving around, stuffing knives and bullets and maybe a grenade into his pockets – Danny has learned not to question the objects shoved into various pockets anymore. He glances up at the end of Danny’s rant when he gets particularly loud and puts a finger to his lips in a shushing moment. Danny points a finger at him. “You, don’t shush me,” he says shortly. “The woman insists on doing laundry – _your_ laundry, and then bitching because we don’t separate our clothing and then bitching because therefore she has to do mine. Then she bitches when I suggest she could just – oh, I don’t know, separate yours from mine when she does the fucking laundry?” Danny waves a hand around, looking up helplessly towards the sky.

“Danny –“ Steve tries.

“But, oh, noooo,” Danny shakes his head, “That won’t work either, because she takes offense to that, like I’m not thankful for her doing laundry, or something. Then – then she cooks dinner but they’re all your favorite meals and no offense babe – but meals I _hate,_ I’m Italian, okay? I like good, home-made _Italian_ meals – not – well – let’s just say not what she’s cooking. So when I politely decline whatever she’s cooking, she gets _uppity_ about that, as well…” he breaks off at the look on Steve’s face.

“What?”

“Uppity?” Steve asks, sounding incredulous.

“That’s what you take from this conversation, Steven?” Danny shouts, flinging his arms up. “You take the word uppity from this conversation? What the fuck is the matter with you? You know what – maybe I’ll just go stay with Chin for a few days, huh? How about that? And you can just – just have some good old fun with amazing Aunt Irene!” He stomps down the steps, much in the fashion of a four year old and slams the door behind him on the way to the car.

It’s kind of hard to continue his tantrum when he realizes Steve has his car keys, but he has no problem bitching the entire way to HQ.

\--  
“Did you hate my mother?” Danny asks.

Rachel looks up from where she’s setting Grace’s book bag on the counter and arches an eyebrow. “I can’t say I’ve ever hated your mother,” she says mildly. “You, certainly, but your mother? Definitely not.” Danny throws her a wounded look and she gives him a smile that could cut glass.

Rachel is like that, he knows.

“What has brought this up, Daniel?” She asks, gesturing for him to sit at the kitchen counter chairs. She pulls two mugs down and puts the kettle on for tea and Danny is silently grateful. He’d never really admit it to anyone, but Rachel makes amazing tea and it’s probably something he misses most about her now that they’ve moved on past all the – other stuff. Especially on days like this, when he feels like shit and Rachel’s tea makes him feel warm and fuzzy, like the best blanket, only from the insides.

He doesn’t speak, watching her fuss around with tea bags and sugar and milk until the kettle shrills, then pouring hot water into the cups. When she delivers Danny his tea, he takes it with a grateful look and Rachel again arches her brow at him. Danny sighs and takes a sip before setting his cup down and saying, “You weren’t even ever annoyed by her?”

Rachel laughs – laughs for so long that Danny thinks she’s forgotten what the question is. “Daniel, your mother drove me barking mad,” she tells him when she finally calms down. “But that does not mean that I hated her.”

“I hate Steve’s aunt,” he blurts out and then covers his mouth, eyes widening at what is not exactly a revelation but wasn’t meant to be said aloud.

Rachel stares at him, open-mouthed for a moment, before she smiles. “In-laws?” She asks gleefully. “You – you have in-laws again? Oh, Danny!”

“Rachel,” he glares darkly, and she muffles her laughter with her hand, tries to stop and bursts out with even more laughter. “Come on,” he whines in a tone that she once said was one of her Top Ten reasons for starting to hate him. She stops laughing and takes a sip of her tea.

“What’s wrong with her?” She asks seriously.

“She’s rude!” he shouts, “She invades our privacy, she does my laundry, she’s seen me in my boxers, she’s a Methodist, she makes German food – what’s not wrong with her?” he swings his arms wildly and Rachel tries to hide a smile behind her tea cup.

“What wasn’t wrong with my mum, as well?” She asks conversationally-like, and Danny narrows his eyes.

“Are you – what are you implying, Rach?”

“Nothing at all,” she says, too innocent. “Just that, maybe you should give her a chance, is all, Daniel. Maybe she’s not so bad. I learned to adjust to your mother, after all. I never complained.”

Danny thinks that is a lying lie, but he bites his tongue because Rachel made him tea and he’s feeling pretty warm and fuzzy and also – she’s trying, so maybe he should, too. He’s also pretty sure Irene is trying to kill him and he might need a place to hide out and Rachel’s house would be the _last_ place anyone looks, so he tries to stay on her good side.

“I – right,” he says. “So I should – shut up?” He asks uncertainly.

“You should give her a chance,” Rachel says, and Danny resists the urge to tell her she’s no help at all because.

That would really be no help at all.

\--  
Turns out, Aunt Irene actually really does hate Mary, Danny learns when he calls her to get the scoop. She’s laughing as he tells her about Irene’s various attempts to kill him.

“She just _left_ the vacuum cord stretched taught across the kitchen into the living room and I went – flying!” Danny shouts into the phone while walking back and forth across the beach. Mary snorts with laughter and he hears her take a drink of what’s probably her third margarita because she sounds pretty happy-go-lucky.

“Irene hates everybody,” Mary tells him, “Even her own kids. Steve was the exception, for some unknown reason. But no, really. Irene is a stone cold bitch, dude.”

“That’s,” Danny runs a hand through his hair, “That’s great. “So she really is trying to kill me.”

Mary slurps on her straw and he hears the clink of ice hitting glass as she pours more. Finally she says, “Yeah, probably.”

“Fuck,” he sighs. “There’s not any chance you’d be willing to come here for the duration of her stay, right?”

“Danny,” Mary says flatly, “She tried to send me to the Institute for Misbehaved and Misunderstood Teenaged Girls.”

“I’m sure she was just trying to help, you’d just lost your mother,” Danny cries.

“I was eleven. My mother was still alive. And I was actually pretty good,” Mary says in what sounds like an even flatter tone, if possible. “Take it from me personally. The sooner the old bat dies, the sooner you’ll be happier. And your life expectancy will increase marginally.”

“I hate you,” he says. “So much hate.”

\--  
“ – and Teenaged Girls,” Danny hisses into Steve’s ear as they pull plates down. Steve turns and stares at Danny disapprovingly.

“Okay, first of all, since when have you been talking to Mary? Second of all, Mary had attitude,” Steve shrugs. “Aunt Irene was just… throwing out a suggestion.”

The very woman in question turns around at that moment wielding a Chef’s knife slightly larger than Danny’s hand and Danny fights the urge to flee the kitchen. _She is not a murderer. She’s not trying to kill me. It’s just in-law syndrome._ “Mary was eleven, okay,” Danny says as she walks away, “There is no way she had enough attitude to be sent to a detention center.”

“Well,” Steve says and then trails off because obviously there are no excuses here. Danny smirks. He opens his mouth a moment later and nothing comes out. Finally he just says, “Danno, can we please just eat. I swear Aunt Irene is not trying to kill you and she doesn’t hate you. God.”

“No, see, you’re wrong,” Danny says insistently, “She does hate me, it’s a known fact that differing religions and immigrants do not get along – German versus Italian, Methodist versus Catholic – are you seeing the pattern here?”

“I’m seeing a lunatic boyfriend,” Steve says, shaking his head and walking out onto the lanai, and Danny stomps his foot angrily and spreads his hands wide in a _Why me, God?_ fashion.

Danny picks up his fork with the intent to start eating, but Irene clears her throat several times until he finally looks up. “Um,” he says, unsure, “Yeah?”

“You haven’t said grace,” she says, giving him the stink-eye. “You should always say grace before you eat your dinner.”

“Right,” Danny says, feeling faint and dizzy. “Of course.”

And then she proceeds to say a Methodist prayer that Danny of course doesn’t know because he’s, you know – _Catholic,_ born and raised and truly bred Catholic, of all Godforsaken things, although Irene likes to point out he’s a were-Catholic, given his – and she always gives him another stink-eye here – divorce and life-choices. Danny doesn’t know why she approves of _Stevie’s_ life choices and not his, but it’s sure as fuck pissing him right off.

They eat in silence, save for Irene’s occasional comments about Danny’s elbows on the table and the noises he makes while he chews and the way he wears his hair and why does he need to have his shirt unbuttoned that far down? Is he a gigolo? Danny’s fork clatters as it hits his plate, “Oh, my God,” he says loudly, glaring at Steve who is staring at his plate intensely, “It’s _three buttons,_ oh, my God.” He stands up and walks back into the house to her shouting.

“It’s not nice to leave the dinner table before the meal is finished!”

“Excuse me!” He shouts, and if sliding glass doors could be slammed, well, that one would be shattered, he surmises as he stomps up the stairs, unbuttoning his sleeves and then yanking his shirt over his head.

Steve comes up the stairs a minute later, crosses his arms and stands in the doorway, watching Danny fling stuff around as he mumbles under his breath and changes swiftly. “Danno,” he tries and Danny turns quickly to glare at him.

“Unless you have something to say like, I’m sorry I never told you I had an aunt who might just pop in unexpectedly on us some day and _never leave,_ Steven, do not say anything,” Danny says and then turns back to the dresser, yanking a drawer open.

Steve sighs. “Maybe you should um – go stay with Chin or Kono for a few days,” he says quietly and Danny whirls around.

“What did you just say?” he spits out, “No, really, Steve, I don’t think I heard you. What did you _just_ say?”

“I’m just – I think that maybe –“

But Danny is already yanking clothes out of his drawers, throwing them on the bed and Steve is tracking his movements unsurely. “Fine,” Danny laughs hollowly, “That’s just – that’s just great,” he says, “I’ll go stay with Kono and you can stay here and gain fifty pounds on sauer kraut and pork and hot dogs and stink the house up and drink all my fucking coffee and she can do your laundry and call me a gigolo and a were-Catholic and it’ll all be fucking _okay,_ ” Danny shouts the last part loudly, shoving his clothes into a duffle bag. He pulls on a pair of sweatpants and a tee shirt before shoving past Steve.

“Danny that’s not what I meant,” Steve says.

“Sure, Steve,” Danny says listlessly, stomping down the steps. Irene is in the living room dusting a picture of Grace and Steve and white-out anger rises up inside of Danny. “You don’t – “ he snatches the picture up, “That’s _my_ daughter, okay?” he snarls and takes the picture with him as he continues his journey out to the car, Steve calling his name the entire time.

Once he peels out of the driveway and gets far enough that Steve can’t see his taillights, he pulls over and takes a few deep breaths. He pulls his cell phone out and calls Kono because Chin is too quiet to spend an entire night with as much as he loves him. She answers on the third ring. “I may,” Danny says shakily, “Sort of need a… couch to crash on?”

There’s a pause and then Kono says, “It’s the In-Law Syndrome, isn’t it? Stage four?”

“FUBAR,” Danny agrees.

\--  
Kono is actually very nice about it and doesn’t ask too much. She makes him tea and it’s not as good as Rachel’s but it’s close enough and he curls up on the couch and silently mourns the loss of his big, tough Navy SEAL to a wicked witch who calls herself his aunt. Kono turns on Dirty Dancing and they watch it together, all the while naming the ways that Johnny probably had to put up with terrible in-laws.

“Just think,” Kono says, tugging a blanket up around her, “Baby’s mom probably bitched about his table manners _constantly._ ”

“And his hair,” Danny says, nodding, eyes on the screen. “All that grease. And the leather jacket.”

“The jeans,” Kono lists, “The car.”

“God,” Danny says, “I’d have killed her.”

There’s silence and when he looks over, Kono is eyeing him. “Are you –“

Danny’s eyes widen, “No!” He yelps, “I mean, no, I am not thinking about killing her. Though I’m pretty sure she’s trying to kill me. How could she not be? At the very least she’s trying to split Steve and I apart, as is evident by –“ he waves a hand between him and Kono and Steve nods.

“This is true,” she says and takes a sip of her tea. Danny sighs and scrubs a hand over his face.

“I’m tired,” he says, “I’m tired of defending myself to her, I’m tired of yelling at Steve about it, I’m tired of yelling on deaf ears, period.”

Kono shrugs, looking at him sympathetically. “So I guess you stop yelling,” she says.

Danny sighs again.

\--  
Steve blows up three cars and then gets shot and that’s when Danny starts yelling. It’s been three days and they haven’t really talked at all before then, but now – now he’s mad. Because Steve _blew up_ three cars and then got shot – and he didn’t get shot too bad, just a flesh wound, but it’s enough to get him sent to the hospital.

Danny yells the entire way there, in the back of the ambulance, while Steve stares up at the ceiling. “And another thing, Steven – this is _not_ a Stephanie Plum novel, okay? We don’t just run around blowing cars up, Jesus Christ almighty! You’re not Stephanie Plum, I actually thought you were smarter than her!”

“Who is Stephanie Plum?” Steve squints, and Danny shoots him a glare.

“Shut up! Did I say you could talk? No, no I didn’t. I said you got _shot_ because you blew up _three_ cars like some fictional stupid heroine and now we’re in the back of a fucking ambulance because of it.”

“Danno,” Steve falls back against the pillows and groans and Danny runs a hand through his hair.

“Steve,” he says. Steve looks at him, long and serious, reaches a hand out and Danny grips it tightly.

“I’m okay,” he murmurs, and Danny thinks he takes his first deep breath since he started spending the night at Kono’s, if he’s honest with himself.

Steve spends the night at the hospital and Danny spends the night in the chair next to him, because if he’s honest with himself, he was scared shitless after Steve had blown the first two cars up and then disappeared and all that he’d been left with was the sound of gunshots ringing in his ears. He wakes up around seven in the morning to someone bustling around in the hospital room and nearly pisses his pants when he sees that it’s Irene, setting flowers down on the stand right in front of his face. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he shouts.

Irene stares at him disapprovingly. “Some partner you are,” she sniffs, gesturing towards a sleeping Steve.

“Okay,” Danny says lowly, “That – that was just uncalled for, right there, lady. Completely uncalled for, okay? I’m a great partner, a damned fucking amazing partner, you got that? I keep Steve under a lot more control than he would be if I _weren’t_ around, so maybe that’s something you should consider – that he could possibly be dead if I weren’t his partner.”

Irene stares at him, unimpressed. “I was talking about his bandages needing changed, boy. But that’s also duly noted.”

Danny gapes at her as she goes to find a nurse and falls back into a chair, exhausted.

He’s not sure how much more he can take.

\--  
They let Steve out in the afternoon with instructions to stay in bed for at least the next day. “So I was thinking, babe,” Danny says as he helps him up the walk. “I’ll make some chicken noodle soup, okay? And then we’ll just laze in bed all day, right? Chin and Kono have stuff at the office taken care of.”

Steve grunts as he tries to navigate up the porch steps and then he offers Danny a smile. “Sounds good, Danno. Real good.”

Which is, of course, when Danny opens the door to the really _off_ smell of chicken broth and Irene moving just beyond the foyer in the living room, fluffing pillows. Danny’s stomach has a huge sinking feeling and he grips Steve’s wrist a little tighter.

“Stevie,” Irene says, “You come right over here on the couch and get settled in. I’ve got chicken soup on for you right now.

“Um –“ Steve says, looking pained and uncertain.

“No,” Danny says tightly, “It’s fine, come on, Steve, over to the couch.”

“Danny –“

“Seriously, Steve. Over to the couch. Then I’ll get your medicine and you can pass out and I’ll just – read a book or something. It’s fine. Really,” Danny’s voice is still off, though, and Steve can tell but he’s obviously too tired to do anything about it, so he just follows Danny’s lead. Once he reaches the couch, Irene takes over and Danny once again sinks into the background.

Instead of reading a book, he grabs his car keys and slips out of the house towards the high-end part of the city, towards his daughter and his ex-wife. He enters the code and then pounds on the door until Rachel appears. “Daniel,” she says, exasperated but she has a fond look on her face, so Danny knows she isn’t really mad. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, Steve got shot,” Danny says conversationally, “He blew up three cars, too – that’s besides the point, I guess. The point is, Steve got _shot,_ ” he looks up at her with wide, angry eyes.

Rachel arches an eyebrow and sighs, “I guess you’d better come in. I’ll make tea.”

Once tea is served, Danny rambles on, “I should be there, I should be – fluffing his pillows or whatever! And her chicken soup smells off – it doesn’t smell right at all. Not like mine or Ma’s. It smells gross, is what it smells like. But instead, I’m here and she’s there, taking care of him.”

He stares glumly down at the marble countertops and Rachel doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Finally she says, “When you got shot the first time? Back when you were still a beat cop? Your mother showed up every day, Daniel. At our _apartment._ She insisted on making supper, she insisted on checking on you and giving you your pills. I was forced to stand back and watch her. I wanted to tear my hair out with frustration. But it’s a mother’s way – or a guardian’s, I suppose – way of showing they care. Are you saying you wouldn’t do that for Grace?”

“Of course I’d do that for Grace!” He says indignantly.

“Even if she’s married?”

“They might not know what she likes,” Danny says adamantly. “She likes a cool cloth on the back of her neck when she runs a fever, and – oh,” he says slowly.

“It took me a long time to realize that,” Rachel tells him gently. “But it didn’t mean that your mother didn’t still drive me bat-shit insane. I get the impression Irene will always do the same for you. I suppose it doesn’t help that she hates you and you, apparently, hate her. Your mother did always seem to at least _like_ me.”

“She loved you,” Danny sighs.

“That’s stretching the truth,” Rachel laughs and pats his arm. “Now, Grace is outside swimming. How about I fetch her and you take her for a few hours? It appears as though you could use a few hours’ worth cheering up.”

“Please?” He asks, giving her an uncertain look.

Rachel just smiles and disappears to find Grace.

\--  
Danny comes home from taking Grace to get shave ice and to the park and he’s exhausted. He peers into the living room and sees that Steve is passed out and sighs, realizing that even though Irene has taken over every aspect of their lives, she obviously can’t carry Steve up the steps – though he doesn’t put it past her to try. He walks over and gently shakes Steve awake. “Huh?” Steve startles, opening his eyes slowly. It’s evident that Irene has gotten him to take his medicine, because Steve is always hazy on his medicine, unsure of his movements – that’s why he hates taking them.

“Come on, Steve,” Danny says, gripping his arm and hauling him up. “Up to bed.”

“You were gone,” Steve sleep-slurs. “Where’d you go, Danno?”

“I went to visit Grace,” Danny scowls, “Sheesh, Steven, I wasn’t aware you were tracking my every move. You know, considering I’m not even supposed to be staying here at the moment and all.” They’re halfway to the steps and Steve stops mid-step, turns to him, squinting.

“You’re mad,” he says sadly, frowning, “That I suggested that; you’re mad still.”

“No, I’m thrilled with it,” Danny deadpans and Steve frowns even more, if it’s possible. Danny rolls his eyes and tries to tug him forward, but Steve digs his heels in.

“Danno,” he says, pulling away and swaying a little. Danny reaches out to steady him and Steve runs his hands up and down Danny’s arms. Danny narrows his eyes at him. “Danno,” he says again, “ ‘m sorry. I just. I just wanted you to not be stressed.”

“Yeah? Well I’m more stressed sleeping on Kono’s couch than I am sleeping in bed next to you, Steve. I’m more stressed worrying about you when I can’t take care of you myself, okay?”

“She’s going to go home soon,” Steve says stubbornly, leaning into Danny’s touch as Danny finally gets him to start moving up the stairs again.

“I’m sure she will,” Danny says. He finally gets Steve tucked into bed and then turns to go, but Steve tugs on his wrist.

“Stay tonight,” he says, yawning. “Stay every night. Stay forever,” he’s mumbling, already drifting off to sleep, and Danny sighs and rolls his eyes, but strips down to his boxers and crawls in between the sheets and snuggles up next to him.

It’s the best night’s sleep he’s had for a long time.

\--  
“Oh, you’re here.”

Danny grimaces and runs a hand through his hair as he pours a mug of coffee. “I _live_ here.”

There’s a pause, “That’s right,” Irene says, and turns back to the skillet in front of her. Steve limps down the steps a few minutes later and Irene turns around with a smile on her face. “I’m making eggs,” she says, gesturing towards the pan.

Danny glances over, sees what she’s made and something quick and hot snaps inside him. He jumps up from his chair and turns the stove off, tosses the contents of the skillet out. He turns back to a wide-eyed Irene. “Steve hates scrambled eggs,” he tells her.

She opens her mouth and he interrupts before she can get anything in. At the table, Steve is sliding his chair back into a corner, eyes on the two of them, fingers gripping the seat of the chair tightly. In the back of Danny’s mind he thinks, _Some SEAL you are, you coward,_ before he continues. “No, listen,” he says, “You might have known _Stevie,_ but I know _Steve_ okay. And Steve hates scrambled eggs. He likes them sunny side up, with one piece of wheat toast, one of his protein smoothie things, and then a mug of coffee. That’s his breakfast every morning. Except for Sundays. Sundays – I make breakfast. I wake up when he gets up for his swim, I make pancakes and bacon and sausage and fresh-squeezed orange juice and maybe he only eats one the pancakes out of the huge stack I put on his plate and about half the bacon that I placed there – but he eats it, okay? Because I _made_ it. He sure as _fuck_ does not eat scrambled eggs.”

He’s breathless and wild eyed when he’s finished, hands caught mid-air in a gesture he never quite completed and Irene is staring at him open-mouthed, her own fists clenched by her side. Finally she snaps her jaw closed, stares at him for a moment longer before saying stiffly, “Well,” and clearing her throat. She crosses the room and turns around again to look at him. “Well,” she says again and then disappears.

Danny closes his eyes tight and sinks against the kitchen counter, shaking his head. “Sorry,” he says hoarsely, avoiding Steve’s gaze.

Steve doesn’t say anything for a long moment and then he struggles to stand up. He gets over to Danny and wraps his arms around him. Danny is surprised for a moment before he lets himself relax into the hold, wrapping his own arms around Steve’s back. “You don’t have to be sorry,” Steve murmurs against his hair, running fingers up and down his back soothingly. “I should be sorry. I haven’t been standing up for you when it comes to Aunt Irene and I – I’m sorry,” he clears his throat, “You’re right. Aunt Irene – she knows what I used to like, but you – you know _me,_ and she refuses to see that. And I just let her walk all over you.”

Danny nods, “You were mean,” he mumbles against Steve’s skin, and Steve laughs. It rumbles pleasantly through Danny and Danny smiles just a little, so Steve can’t see it.

“I was,” Steve agrees.

“It was mean for you to get shot and not let me take care of you, too,” Danny tells him.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, gripping him tighter.

“Okay,” Danny whispers, looking up and Steve leans down and kisses him, long and slow and perfect, forgiveness and apologies all wrapped up into one, everything they both need in that moment. Danny pulls away and offers him a smile. “So,” he says, turning to the stove. “Would you like breakfast?”

Steve laughs.

\--  
They’re watching television when Irene comes down the steps, suitcase in tow. Steve jumps up and takes it from her, completely ignoring the fact he’s wounded and all. Danny shoots him a glare before standing up, as well. “Irene,” he says, sighing, “You don’t need to leave.”

She eyes him for a moment before saying, “Thank you, but I do. The only reason I came in the first place was to make sure my Stevie was being taken care of. When I got here, I had my doubts about you. You’re mouthy, you argue constantly and I was wary as to whether or not you’re good for him. But Stevie _loves_ you. He loves you and your daughter very, very much. And it’s clear that you love him, too,” she says, swallowing and glancing over at Steve, who is grinning at the both of them like a stupid lunkhead who clearly has a big, stupid heart.

Danny himself is staring slack-jawed at Irene. He’s thinking, _You’ve got to be kidding me? This is all one big torture test?_ “This morning, you proved that you know Steve better than even I do, obviously. You proved that Steve is very well taken care of. And for that, I can go home and rest well, knowing that Stevie is well taken care of.”

“Jesus,” Danny says.

Irene grins shark-like at him. “Now,” she says, “Be a gentleman and get this suitcase out to the car while I say goodbye to Stevie.”

When Danny gets back inside he catches the tail-end of their goodbye, “… Don’t let him yell at you too much, Stevie. It’s bad for the both of you, and anyways, he takes too much advantage of you. And don’t get shot at too much, okay? I know you’re just doing it to keep others safe, but you think about yourself, too,” Irene is saying, giving him one last pat on the cheek. Danny rolls his eyes and bites his tongue.

When Irene is walking out the door, she turns back to Danny, “I still don’t like you, boy,” she says.

“That’s. Wow. That’s – great,” Danny says, and shuts the door, leaning against it heavily.

Steve is behind him, shaking with laughter. Danny points and accusatory finger at him. “Shut up,” he says, “Shut up right now.”

“Don’t yell at me too much, Danny,” Steve says seriously and Danny crosses the room and tackles him gently to the floor, mindful of his wound.

“So, she’s gone,” Danny mumbles against Steve’s lips.

“She is,” Steve says.

And then Steve is doing things that have Danny cursing and moaning and gripping Steve’s shoulders and seeing stars. And Danny thinks, _Thank God, thank God somebody gave me Steve._

Danny thinks life is pretty good right now.


End file.
